Life Drawing
by drcalvin
Summary: After the barricade, they both grapple with understanding the changes in their lives and the friendship that has sprung up between them. Javert takes up drawing to better see the world in a new world. His favorite subject? Valjean. Beneath the surface, unsaid things simmer and tensions rise. (slash, COMPLETED)
1. Chapter 1

This fic is remix of Carmarthen's "Top Model".

* * *

Valjean suspected it to be a joke at first, but when Javert outlined his arguments in succinct points, he was forced to take it as a serious suggestion. Somehow, without ever quite recalling how he had agreed to it, Valjean now found himself modeling for Javert's life-drawing exercises about twice a week.

It was, his friend insisted, to improve his ability to sketch criminals in a quick and moderately competent hand. A skill which would support order; in other words, to help him improve was a good deed. And Valjean was free to spend the time reading or gaze upon his garden while Javert trained his skills; surely it was not such a chore?

No, Valjean was forced to admit, no, it wasn't exactly a chore... however, he did find it distracting to have Javert's concentrated stare aimed his way. Despite seeing Javert dutifully destroy the sketches after each session, he still felt nervous; these images were meant to look like the ones going into police records!

He was not Javert's only subject, though he was the only one so frequently depicted. More and more frequently, he saw Javert take out a small sketch pad and unwrap a stick of charcoal when they were out and about. He would sometimes sketch children playing, women walking and men conversing; but the less aesthetic subjects were more likely to catch his eye. Carters unloading their wagons, beggars sitting with their hands out, layabouts ambling past with their eyes trained on fat purses and soldiers marching by. In fact, Valjean realized that most of Javert's attempts seemed focused on the male form. When he enquired about it, the Inspector shrugged him off and pointed out that all statistics were in agreement: male criminals far outnumbered females. It made far more sense for him to concentrate his efforts there.

They had known each other for decades at this time, and been friends for some two years. A friendship grown mostly peaceful after those turbulent days when they had both needed to re-evaluate their place in the world and Javert had wrestled most ferociously with his conscience.

Javert had been drawing him for almost a year, his hand growing surer each month; yet he had not shown Valjean anything beyond detail studies, if one excluded the very first images. Those, he had used to convincingly argue that he needed training. And while the first months seemed to have been a steady progress, Valjean occasionally being shown a particular evocative likeness when they visited a café together, Javert's mood during their artistic sessions had declined lately.

Finally, one sweltering August eve, when they had already had a minor quarrel about Valjean's habit of loading his pockets with coins (in Javert's opinion, he was both ruining the fabric and exposing himself to cut-throats) Javert was at his usual sketching when without warning, he made a frustrated sound nearing the growl of a beast, and threw his charcoal and the entire sketch pad into the fire grate.

Valjean stared in amazement: though the fire was out, he had never imagined that Javert would handle his supplies so carelessly.

"What in the world is the matter?" he asked. "I have not moved, have I?" He had been reading a slim volume of poetry and though the small type sometimes had him squinting, he thought he had behaved quite properly for a model.

"Of course not," Javert said. "You are as always an exemplary subject of study. No, it is my skills that keep failing me..." Feeling the weight of Valjean's silent enquiry, he rose and began to pace back and forth. "I can manage faces, somewhat, but the lines of the body continue to elude me."

"Are they then so important for your work?"

Javert gave him a tired look from beneath his grey fringe. "A man's face he will try to change and disguise, but it is far harder to transform the stoop of a back, the gait, the scars and callouses on his hands..."

He did not mention how he knew this, and Valjean pretended not to hear the silent rebuke in it; still, an awkward silence fell between them. When it only lenghtened, and the past seemed to grow far too close and large Valjean mumbled something about preparing a drink, then escaped to the kitchen.

They did not speak further of drawing a man's likeness that night. Indeed, the next Saturday, when Javert habitually came to him after his shift had ended, he did not mention anything about modelling, nor did Valjean see a sketch pad.

The silence continued for another week, until Valjean caught himself looking at his own face in the mirror while shaving; he had been considering asking Cosette to cut his hair again and suddenly recalled the barely contained hilarity on Javert's face when he had not dried his hair properly before going out in the wintry night some months ago. Only when Valjean felt a drop of water fall onto his nose did he realize a few tufts of hair must have frozen, probably in an amusing position. He had tried to wrestle those drawings away from Javert at the end of the session, but with the quick fingers of a police spy he had made them disappear up his shirtsleeves before Valjean could more than a peek at them...

How odd. The evenings that had been awkward at first, had become pleasant with time and so gradually that Valjean had never noticed before. Now, he missed them. They still walked together, talked together, but the silent comfort of feeling Javert's concentration rest wholly on him without having to reciprocate with thoughts, when he was free to relax in the nearness of his otherwise prickly friend, or simply look at him in turn; when he could see that fierce brow knitted in concentration and knew he did not have to worry about some poor unfortunate caught between the law and mercy...

They had not seen each other as much in these last weeks, had they? Javert was too restless to remain for hours without something to occupy his hands. Valjean found it tiring, after so many years in silent contemplation, to engage someone in entertaining dialogue and conversation for an entire night; it was different on the streets, where they could silently point out sights to each other, where there was a constant stream of new images and sounds to speak of; but conversation for the sake of conversation? No, neither of them was skilled in that area.

Nevertheless, he missed the peaceful hours with Javert.

The next time they were taking coffee together, a man of a singular build entered the café: He was so large that he must bend beneath the spacious door, and the cup looked like a toy in his hand, almost disappearing when he walked over to his table. Valjean was not at all surprised when Javert's lips crinkled in a familiar way, the minute suggestion of a smile which was all he would allow himself in public. He reached for his pocket – only to halt, glance at Valjean, and placidly return his hands to his lap instead.

"I do not mind, you know," he said in his most friendly tone. "I know you recognized my back before my face; and while it caused me considerable difficulties, I think it would be a shame not to put your talent to its best use."

Waving him off, Javert replied. "I should give up this conceit. My dabbling is good enough to produce an image to pass around at the station. Further training is nothing but a waste of time and money." Upon glancing at Valjean, perhaps noticing his displeasure, he added, "I have grown lax in my reading, however. Perhaps we could attempt that together?"

Valjean smiled non-committally; though he did in truth find it interesting to discuss his reading matter with Javert, it was not something that made for peaceful evenings. They had wildly differing tastes and their debates could grow quite heated, even discounting the times Javert would aim his complaints at the author as if he were there with them to be lectured. However, the last time they read together had been months ago. Perhaps they would find a better equilibrium now that they both knew they could remain peacefully in one room for a length of time?

A young lady passed, her blond hair peeking out beneath a pale blue bonnet, and Valjean was reminded of another girl, far fairer to his eye; she was growing into a beautiful woman, but a father's eye will always miss looking upon the time flown by. "Shame. Here I thought to ask you to create a portrait of Cosette for me," he murmured, scarce noticing that he had spoken out loud.

"Your daughter?" Javert pulled at his whiskers, then shook his head. "I would not dare. I have only worked in the small scale – and women, no, they are hard to draw. The lines become too rough."

"Oh, but it would not have to be a grand picture," Valjean protested, seizing upon the hint of interest in Javert's voice. "Only a little thing, for my writing desk perhaps. Would you not consider it? For this, I freely offer myself up if you need to practice further."

Javert tapped his finger at the table, following the girl with his eyes. "I would need to make some attempts first..." he said. "But I suppose... Though honestly, it is the – Ah, never mind, this is foolishness."

He returned to his coffee with a certain sulky determination and Valjean chose discretion for now. The drawing evenings were not taken up again, though the little sketch-pad made an occasional appearance on their outings. However, when Javert accompanied him to Mass about a month later, and they encountered Cosette and her husband, he took a moment to remind the other man of his request.

This time, Javert seemed more inclined to give it a try, and a few days later, he arranged Valjean in the armchair in one of his usual poses, a book in his hand.

"I believe my skills have rusted," Javert said as he worked. He frowned down at the paper, and stuck the stick of charcoal behind his ear to move his seat. "It is not only the angles that are off this time," he continued to complain, "your arm is – no, no, for God's sake don't move it!"

"Pardon me," Valjean said, flexing the muscles slightly. "It seems as if I too have gone out of practice, for I am feeling unusually stiff tonight. And my cravat is itching."

At that, Javert's charcoal stopped it's light movement. "Well. You might as well loosen it then. This attempt is rubbish either way. In fact..."

"Yes?"

If his eyes did not deceive him, Javert was almost squirming with discomfort in his seat. "I believe one of my problems with drawing body lines... You recall how we discussed this before?"

Valjean nodded, then turned the movement into an exaggerated roll of his head, wincing at the crackling sounds produced.

"I believe it is because I have problems drawing the, ah, male form."

"But you have practised on me for over a year?"

"No," Javert corrected him, "I have practised on the male em_face_/em for over a year. I do not quite have the space to fit your whole profile onto the small sketch-pad," he complained. "And even if I had... To put it bluntly: it is hard to draw clothes covering a body properly, when one does not know how to draw the body beneath."

Valjean raised an eyebrow at the insinuation. "Well!"

Javert pulled at his whiskers again and looked down at his drawing with a pitying look, very much the owner of a little pup that could not, despite much coaxing, learn how to properly behave. "I regret to admit that my assumption regarding why art students insisted on having young ladies lying around might have been somewhat in error."

Happy to leave the topic of drawing the male form – especially his male form – unclothed, Valjean properly put away his book and regarded Javert more openly. "Only somewhat?"

"If you had been at the disturbance in Rue des Ursulines, you would understand." Seeing Valjean's curious look, Javert leaned back in his chair and gave a heavy sigh. "I have never told you this? It is practically a legend in the precinct..."

"You are the only policeman I regularly find myself in conversation with, Monsieur Javert, so if I have not heard of this legend, the blame must lie at your feet."

"Ah, well, true enough. And I suspect you would not be satisfied if I revealed that it began with the neighbours complaining of odd noises, and ended with three policemen chasing half a dozen naked students down the street? While the fourth, and most unfortunate, officer was attempting to take the names and addresses of an equal number of insufficiently dressed grisettes? Oh, laugh at me, will you! I shall have you know that those women were among the most unhelpful and rude witnesses I have ever had the misfortune to interrogate."

"Worse than the time the widow Chevalier thought you were the burglar who had come back to steal more of her pots and assaulted you with them?"

When Javert buried his face in his hands Valjean laughed loudly, and they spent the rest of the evening swapping tales and anecdotes. Only later did it hit Valjean that they had spoken about the time in Montreuil-sur-Mer without allowing the dark memories to poison the evening, or even feel a need to remark upon the injuries they'd committed towards each other in any particular way.

Next week, Javert brought with him a large roll consisting of several sheets of drawing paper. The sheets were still not of the size of a full portrait canvas, but must have cost a fair sum even so. When Valjean enquired about them, Javert refused to reveal the cost, and his estimate of the prize doubled.

"I shall give you a full receipt for the sketches done in preparation of Cosette's portrait," was as far as Javert was willing to bend on that matter. "These, however, are for my personal edification, and as such their cost is none on your business. Now then; off with the waistcoat and shirt, please."

Valjean blanched. "If you need to train on drawing more elegant lines," he began, but Javert shook his head sternly.

"I cannot learn to draw the human form by painting flowers or other such silly things," he insisted. "The skeletal structure is similar between the sexes. I found half a book of anatomy on sale recently, and it has taught me a great deal – it is no wonder your shoulders would never come out right before! However, drawings are flat, still, lacking in shadows and vitality... If all you wish is for a generic image, which a doting eye might imagine to be Cosette if squinting a little and turning ijust so/i –" Here, Valjean could not hold back his laughter from Javert's mocking impression of a dandy attempting to see the good in the portrait he had just bought from a hungover student in the park. "– go hunt down some starving artist. Lord knows they litter the city like flies! No. My lines may be rougher and my attempt less flattering, but I will not draw your daughter so that she becomes indistinguishable from a hundred other female illustrations made and discarded in the artistic schools."

"Then I shall simply take my embarrassment and attempt to put it away," Valjean said, and he hurried to remove his shirt before his shame won over his good cheer.

Perhaps Javert had expected some more resistance from him; perhaps he was not as unaffected as he made to be. Whatever the reason, he stood staring at Valjean for a moment – not with his observing eye, measuring angles and planes, counting pen strokes and trying out lines in his mind. No, this was a far more open view, curiously unguarded, and it made Valjean conscious of his body: old, still muscled and wiry, but wrinkled and sagging in places. Scarred too. And worn, so very worn, badly used by time and life. He clutched the shirt in his hands and wished he might pull it over his body and eyes to hide himself completely within.

"Do not," Javert said, a roughness in his voice. "You are..." His hands drifted out, he stood too far away to touch, but Valjean could almost feel the ghosts of his fingers tracing him and he shivered and clenched the shirt until he could feel the fibres give around his fingers. "I have always drawn," Javert said, his words easy and unaffected, but his voice too rough, too intense by far. "In the sand, with pieces of coal... It helped my memory, where writing lists took too long and was too much an effort for many years. But the drawings of a policeman easily become caricatures. You have a description: a tall man, a scar over his eyes, large nose twice broken. How is his jaw? The witness knows not. The shape of his face? Round, oval, they do not recall. How are his eyes – sunken, large, squinting, pig-like, jaundiced? Perhaps they were brown, the witness says, but most decidedly, they were evil. Yes, evil; a policeman learns to see evil and he must try to draw evil. Is it the swarthy face that the old woman robbed considers evil, or is it the thick drunkard which evokes this image in her? How looks a villain or a scoundrel? Impossible to tell, and so I gave up my attempts to capture these likenesses; I drew the caricatures and reminded my colleagues to look at every face with equal suspicion, to tease out the traces of evil in all men they passed. But then..." Javert made that gesture that Valjean had seen so many times in these last two years. Something invisible thrown away, he had first thought; something unfathomable taken hold of, he later amended it to. The night of the barricades, the convict forgiven and let go, the life not quitted – all that, and a little more.

It was not something Javert could name, nor was it a topic Valjean could speak of and so, between them, it had become only this formless movement of a hand: the night of "but then".

"You could not be captured," Javert said, and Valjean felt the memories of shackles and chains upon him; oh, he could, he had been, and that he had escaped was Providence and nothing more. "No caricature was enough to take you in; Jean-the-Jack perhaps. Or the mayor without a past, he might be divined from such an image, but you? No, no, and so I took it up again. I was restless – I still am, you'd say, but it was worse when we began, and I had drawn you for a month before I realized why. It feels right to hunt you, it felt good to fail to capture you again, even if it was only with my pen and in my lines. But the longer the hunt went on, the more frustrating it became. Let me, now." He walked up to Valjean, his hand held out, as if he was a man attempting to tame a hesitant beast, and when he put the stump of pen against Valjean's arm, it was like a galvanic shock passing between them. Valjean found his face snap up, turn towards Javert, meet the dark eyes beneath the dark brows, saw the hunter who dared not approach his prey. Javert wet his lips, and Valjean thought to see hunger in the gesture, and felt a replying wave rising within him; he knew it not, could not name it, and so he only stood trembling while it swept all possible replies away. "Let me attempt it," Javert said again.

Nodding, Valjean let the shirt fall from slack hands, turned like a sleepwalker and almost collapsed in the armchair. He was in his trousers. Javert's eyes were on him, he heard the sound of the charcoal upon paper and the tremors coursed through him again and again, before he fell into complete stillness. He could not take up a book; the words would have made no sense. He could not speak, not turn, wished nothing and knew only occasionally this shapeless hunger within – he thought first it would tear him apart, then realized as the stillness grew and the cold sweat dried upon his nape that it was being fed; not sated, not yet, but fed and growing more and more tolerable the longer Javert's eyes were on him.

The charcoal upon paper, the rustling of Javert rolling up his sleeves, the beating of his heart so wild within the stillness – to these sounds, Jean Valjean drifted off to restless sleep, with dreams full of hunts and shapeless struggles.


	2. Chapter 2

Marius Pontmercy had started his own practice, open to those with the money to pay for his services between eight in the morning and five in the afternoon. After hours, it was open for the unfortunates who needed help all the more because they could not afford it at full price.

Though they had both avoided the official opening celebration, when Monsieur Gillenormand had thrown open his house and invited all manner of students and men of law and learning, Javert had deigned to accompany Valjean to a private dinner.

Their conversation meandered after the dinner. Cosette was expecting and had withdrawn early, her soothing voice and shining smile sorely missed. And for all that he still remained bright-eyed in the day, Monsieur Gillenormand had immediately fallen asleep in his seat when they retreated to the smoking room. Valjean fretted silently over his lack of conversation skills while Marius attempted one topic after the other, only to have them all fall flat before the difficult old men he was hosting tonight.

Finally, Javert mentioned that his work had taken him to an artist's studio earlier in the day. After the anecdote Valjean seized the chance to bring up the topic of Javert drawing Cosette. Marius reacted with less enthusiasm to the idea than expected; too late did Valjean recall that the man knew both students and proficient masters of the arts, though his family connections and work. Moreover, though only a fresh lawyer, Marius had the means to pay for a full-scale portrait done in oil if he wished to own one. He made to apologize, when Javert harrumphed and left the room with annoyed strides. In a short time he returned with his sketching utensils in hand.

"Sit," he told Marius, who flopped back into his seat with the obedience of a schoolboy before his incensed master. "This will only take a moment," he continued, and indeed, the charcoal flew over the pad with impressive speed. Javert glanced up occasionally, tilting his head back and forth, though it was Valjean's impression that he drew equally from memory as from the moment.

When he finished, he held up the pad before his eye, as if to compare the image and the reality. He showed his teeth at the comparison. Oh yes, Valjean recalled, this was Javert's other smile, the one he had not seen in a while. Nor missed in the least, though it was amusing when Marius shrunk back from it.

"That was the warm-up," Javert said. He turned the page and began sketching anew. His strokes were somewhat slower now, and he asked Valjean to bring a light closer, and please put it on the little table near his subject. The large lines seemed to come easy to him, though he hesitated somewhat before beginning on the details. He gave Marius a long, measuring look first, then glanced at the sleeping M Gillenormand, before his gaze wandered towards the door through which Cosette had left them... There, following her path, Javert apparently saw enough to make a decision. He returned to his previous sure method, and quickly finished the image.

Javert tore both sheets off, rolled the first together and let it be swallowed by his sleeve, then rose and shoved the second attempt into Marius' face.

The young lawyer blinked, reached up and accepted the paper. He looked at the image – rarely had Valjean been more nervous on another's behalf. It brought to mind when Cosette would lead the recitals at the convent, though he had then felt both more secure of her knowledge of scripture, and more worried that she would let her nerves trip her up. Javert seemed to have no artistic shyness to speak about, and looked down at Marius with the same bored mien he applied to Valjean's attempts to introduce him to Schiller's poetry.

"But Monsieur..." Marius finally said, handling the image with great care when he returned it to Javert, "this is i_good_/i."

"It would not make much sense to continue to attempt it otherwise," Javert grumbled, and carelessly gave the image to Valjean.

He took it, looked down at the sheet, and saw an image of the young man who was Marius Pontmercy: all nervous smile and untamed hair, despite Cosette's eternal struggle with the comb and scissors. The light of the candle reflected in his eyes, like the spark of conviction for his latest cause. The skin of his face was mostly a white plane, not filled in, yet the shadow of his cheekbone and the tiny scratches marking his lashes around wide eyes turned it from paper into the unlined cheek of youth.

Valjean nodded in approval and made to return the image to Javert. Marius interceded, perhaps because he had been told of Javert's habit of destroying most of his sketches.

"I wish to show it to Cosette," he said. "With your permission, Monsieur."

Javert gave his permission, distracted and careless, and soon after they took their coats and hats and left the house.

"What did you think?" Javert asked when they were on the street. "Of..." He twitched his head back towards the large house, and Valjean weighed his words carefully.

"It was a good likeness," he said. "Very clear and evocative." He thought of the sketches he had seen Javert create in cafés and on park benches. "Although it was perhaps more gentle than you usually are."

"Hah, say it then! Less honest, wasn't it?"

"No," Valjean protested, "for you drew not to flatter and make pretty. Perhaps it is because I know the boy? In the little studies you have made when we walk together, I sometimes imagine an entire story. But I will never know if the truth is as interesting as the tale my mind spins, whereas I know Marius' character from life, and not merely from what I can read in your drawing. Perhaps it is the reason I found your sketch somewhat, well, flat."

The only reply from Javert was a vague hum, though he did not sound displeased with the critique. When next they reached a street light, he reached a hand inside his coat and took out a paper, handing it to Valjean with the more private of his smiles failing to hide beneath the shadow of his hat.

Valjean unrolled it. The coal had smudged somewhat and the light was bad. On the paper, Valjean saw Marius Pontmercy: his lips generous, but slightly petulant, his eyes too wide and so eager to gaze upon his dreams that he would forget where he was putting his feet. The hair had obviously been recently combed, yet managed to evoke the instinct to adjust it in anyone who had been a parent, while his cravat seemed to have been turned in on itself to disguise a spill. In the dawning illumination of joy on his forehead and from the hints of dimples appearing on his cheeks, Valjean recognized the expression. This was Marius one moment from opening his mouth and uttering what he thought would be a perfect compliment to Cosette. It was good that she heard the intent and not the words; Valjean, who couldn't but overhear the actual words said, had taken to clearing his throat at such times, in an attempt to quell his desire to correct the young lawyer.

Javert was weighing back on his heels. For all that he was a man grown grey and age-lined, there was an almost boyish lightness to his voice when he inquired whether Valjean still found it lifeless.

"I thought you were not one to flatter, nor require flattery," he replied instead, and put the image away as carefully as he could, before taking Javert's arm and hooking it in his own. Valjean thought he would keep the image in his desk drawr for it would do him good to look at, if his annoyance with the boy grew too great.

"It is not flattery to ask for an honest opinion," Javert protested.

"It is," Valjean insisted, "when you know I can only applaud you in all ways. For your artistic skill, which has obviously bloomed since you began to practice by drawing old men. And for your sudden gifts in diplomacy, which you have either just acquired or spent many years hiding from me."

"Diplomacy? He wouldn't have noticed either way!"

"No, but I might have committed an indiscretion, if I had both the image and the original to compare. I would only have been able to resist with great difficulty."

"Oh? But you would have managed to resist?" Javert said. "I suppose I must apply myself even harder, then."

"Attempting to drive a wedge between the son-in-law and the unfortunate father?" Valjean asked him with laughter in his voice. "Scoundrel."

"Policeman," Javert corrected. "There is a difference, however minor."

They walked homewards, stepping through darkness and light as their road took them from illuminated boulevards into dark alleys. In equal measure their conversation dipped from winding debates to long stretches of silence; but they both knew this entire night was theirs to ramble through.

When they reached his little house, Valjean was loath to let Javert continue home on his own. Though he had attempted to discover exactly where his friend lived, he had not been able to uncover the fact by honest means. And they both took care not to deceive or pressure each other these days, there'd been too much of that between them. Still, his instincts made him unwilling to let Javert go, when he most assuredly did not live in the safest area of Paris – and it made such a good excuse, too.

Sometimes, Javert would decline and they would spend upwards to a quarter of an hour in the little song-and-dance of 'But it would not at all inconvenience me' versus 'No, Monsieur, I cannot impose' and so on. Amusing as it could be to invent new reasons and deflect polite refusals, Valjean had no desire for it tonight. So he laid his hand upon Javert's and pulled him through the gate, knowing that such a physical invitation was unlikely to lead to a protest. Beneath his fingers', the Inspector's pulse beat a silent protest and Valjean knew he would pay for it with twice as much stubborn officiousness the next time they met in daylight.

"I am turning into a regular night-owl in my old days," Valjean said as they stepped through his front door. "However, if you are weary, the guest room stands ready for you to retire."

"When does it not?" Javert said and carefully hung away his coat. "Do you even have other guests?"

"Ohh," Valjean said vaguely, "it happens, it happens... For instance, Marius brought over M Gillenormand's two little wards not long ago. I look after them sometimes, and help them with their letters."

"Wonderful. It is me and two half-wild children who are your most regular company. A wonder you haven't grown dotty from the isolation."

Almost embarrassed by the thread of worry he heard in Javert's voice, Valjean shrugged. "I do not need much company. As long as I have my daughter and you, my good friend, it is enough."

Javert stilled. He had been removing his protective collar, and when he now grew so completely unmoving it was as if his entire presence, all his natural authority and intensity, spilled out from his body to completely envelope Valjean. Whereas he had once felt the weight of that stare too heavily, dreamt nightmares of it breaking him like the rocks he had broken in his darkest years, the sensation of Javert's regard had now taken on a different quality. It still made Valjean self-conscious – he was not the Sphinx's riddle, who must be dissected down to every detail – but it also teased something within. Before Javert's eyes, beneath his pen, Valjean found himself examined and laid apart as he had never been before. And no matter how many scars were uncovered, no matter how he had felt ashamed for his marked back and lumpy old feet, he was only ever seen and never judged, each fault turned into a matter of light and shadow, Javert pulling him apart until every error became just another part of the whole and he felt... Not perfect, not beautiful. But complete and at peace, and that was the rarest feeling to Valjean.

"Let me draw you," Javert said, and Valjean was nodding before the words were finished. Yes. Tonight he wished to be seen.

"Why did you chose to portray Marius in the way you did?" he asked while he divested himself of his outer garments. Waistcoat and cravat went easily, the braces and shoes too. With the shirt, Valjean still found himself hesitating. He allowed himself to become engrossed in taking off the collar and then ever so carefully unbuttoning the sleeves rather than reflect on it, or experience had taught him that he might well freeze up entirely.

Without looking up from where he was stoking the fire, Javert snorted in a way that revealed all too well what expression he was currently wearing. "How do you mean? Well-meaning but somewhat dim?"

Valjean quenched a laugh at that; the boy was family now, and he would do his best not to belittle him behind his back. "In the moment before he reveals his love to the world," he clarified instead. He began to open the topmost button of his shirt, feeling his mouth grow drier as his fingers worked.

Javert meanwhile busied himself with bringing out his art supplies. Since he still drew only Valjean on the larger sizes of paper, he had left the roll of them here. They both pretended not to notice how the sheets somehow multiplied between sessions.

"It is one of his more common and easily identifiable expressions," Javert said. "It also has the advantage of not entirely revealing what a ninny he is, without falling into flattery." He took up his coal and inspected it critically. Valjean did not know what standards it was failing to uphold, but he nevertheless felt sorry for the little stick.

"Ah yes," he managed, recalling that they had been speaking about Marius just now. "Flattery! That most dreaded of artistic dishonesties."

His unease grew when Javert turned to him and regarded him for a long while. That strict gaze flipped down and Javert frowned at the stockings. Valjean wriggled his toes; Javert had done some detail studies of his hands and feet, which he had even looked over and critiqued, but usually he was not asked to bare them. "Should I –?"

In an irregular move, Javert hesitated, rolling his charcoal nervously between two fingers. He closed his eyes, finally, and nodded slowly.

"Would you..." The words seemed to stick in his throat and he brought the coal to his mouth; silencing himself with his pen, or praying with it, like one might with the rosary, Valjean could not determine.

"Would I what?"

Javert chose not to answer with words; only his hand moved, suddenly, in that grasping helpless gesture that stood for so much between them. When he opened his eyes, his gaze flitted from Valjean's discarded clothing to his standing form. Javert followed the line of him from head to toe, and in that conflicted look he knew the question at least.

He felt his palms grow sticky and it seemed, suddenly, to Valjean that this moment had been hidden behind his fear of disrobing from the very beginning. Would he? Sitting down and unfastening his stockings rather than giving an answer, he looked at Javert, searching for... Answers, perhaps, though the questions remained veiled in confusion.

Though Javert stood before him in his neatly buttoned shirt and meticulously repaired waistcoat, his sideburns immaculate despite the late hour, it seemed to Valjean that he had, in asking this, bared himself even beyond the way he had asked Valjean to disrobe.

He could not answer Javert. His shame, the past and all the marks it had left on him, hung like an ugly stench in the air, and Valjean felt himself wilt beneath the weight of it. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Javert stepped closer and reached out with the hand holding his charcoal. Though he had closed his eyes again, he found Valjean by feel alone, touched him silently with the tip of that small drawing implement – a small point of contact that nevertheless burned like a brand.

"Let me see you," Javert asked through stiff lips. "Please. Let me just... see you."

Cold crept up Valjean's back; fire grew behind his eyes and he blinked vigorously. He drew a breath to answer; the words would not come. He made a move to agree but he'd grown clumsy and pushed Javert's hand away. His friend jerked back as if stung, eyes flying open, turning from him, until Valjean grabbed his hand, found a word and spoke it in the voice of one who has run and been hunted for hours. "Wait."

The seams of the shirt felt rough against his skin when he pulled it off. It stuck on his ear, it scratched at his face, and he threw it away with something near rage. He would not look down, only used his clumsy hands to unfasten ties and buttons. He felt a rush of air when the fabric pooled around his ankles. He stepped away from the clothes and felt bare planks beneath his feet. Valjean shivered at the draft of air from the window.

"Where do you wish me?" he asked, still not allowing his gaze to in any way leave Javert, keeping his hands well out from his sides; not thinking, only walking with slow, falsely sure steps.

"God above," Javert whispered and the hunger in his voice curled around Valjean, made him intensely aware of every part of himself; deep, ugly grooves of scar-tissue on his ankles, knobbly, creaking knees, lash-marks gouged into his back and coarse hair covering him all over, too peasant-like and rough, while still not doing anything to hide his shame. His chest and shoulders remained strong, though he knew his arms were growing weaker with age, and he became at once acutely upset that the head on his hair had been allowed to grow too long, messy white strands uncomfortable against his neck.

"Here's Jean," he said, and then he had to bite his lips, desperate to keep the laughter back for it could only descend into hysteria.

Fumbling with his coal, Javert's eyes would not leave him as he reached for the paper. "Do you wish – on the bed, I can draw you from behind? No; no, you are right..." His eyes cast about the room, always pulling back to Valjean like one of the curious magnetic demonstrations they had seen. Javert stalked to the settee, took a spread from it and threw it on the carpet in front of the fire. "I need light," he said, "to see you."

Valjean lay down, hesitant, and he could not resist bringing his legs together, could not help the blush that spread over his face as he felt his nipples stiffen and a trembling grow throughout his limbs, up his torso, until he was shaking like a leaf and he must turn his face away.

"Please don't," Javert said. "Please, look at me."

But Valjean found he could not, could not look at anything at all. His fists were clenching, and all the scars and age lines became claws that dug into him; he was curling together, hiding away, ashamed as he had not been since the beginning, ashamed and old and i_ugly_/i.

And then a button pinged against the planks and another fell against his elbow. A rustle of cloth, cursing, and Javert was kneeling next to him, shaking his naked shoulder. He too was shirtless and looked horribly embarrassed about it, but he bent close, until the warmth of his breath could be felt against Valjean's skin, and his voice was strong with honesty and determination in equal measures.

"I need only to draw you on this," he whispered, and he held out the little sketch pad; safe and friendly after months of peaceful company. "I need only too... Oh, let me see you, please, let me look."

His mouth was frozen, his eyes strained to shut out the world; Javert waited, and his breath unfroze the fear lodged around Valjean heart. "Who do you see, then?" he managed, at last.

"You," came the reply, without hesitation or doubts, "I see you, Jean Valjean."

Tears did not quite rise to his eyes then and he managed to roll somewhat onto his back again. With effort, Valjean relaxed his hand, though it still partially obscured his eyes. But Javert nodded, put the coal to his pad and began to sketch. He attacked the paper with the ferocity of pursuit and threw down lines almost haphazardly, smearing them out before tearing a sheet off and beginning anew.

The fire brought warmth from one side. Javert's eye, measuring him and finding each detail worth recording, finding Valjean worth elevating from the flawed world of reality to the gentler planes of the paper, warmed him from the other side. By that hand, he had seen silly boys and wretched beggars acquire a strange dignity – as if their transformation into shadows and greys, as if their diminishing into the world of planes and lines brought forth a light invisible that shone out from their souls.

When the small sketching pad was almost consumed, Javert dropped it unceremoniously on the floor and took up a larger paper, fastened it to his drawing board.

Valjean's curiosity overcame him then, and he reached out his hand, managed to find the sketch pad and pull it closer.

"Oh." There were a dozen sketches of a man there. He was an old man, anyone could tell even though his face was hidden. A man whose life had led him on a long and winding road, before he ended up here, lying half turned away, one leg slightly drawn up and a foot pressed against the floor as if he was only waiting for a signal to roll over, push away and take flight.

"They're only exercises," Javert muttered and tugged at the notepad. "Please have patience, and wait until I finish one that at least halfway captures your likeness."

"But this isn't... He is not caught in your lines, this man," Valjean said, and he stared with wonder at the next image. Here, Javert had left the lower body almost completely unfinished, only a thin scribble outlining the legs; the focus was on the hidden face, the pen having gently lifted the shadows. Each mark was softly smudged, as if he had not wished to bring any sharpness near the vulnerable centre of the portrait. The next image had Valjean flushing; a smudged softness again, though this study dared delve down to the shadows beneath his hips.

"I have no wish to capture you like this," Javert said, and he knelt closer to Valjean, dared lay his large hand fully against his cheek. "Only to know you. Only to know. That has been all, for longer than I dared admit even to myself."

"Yes," Valjean sighed and he finally found himself relaxing back into that sweet mood which only Javert's sketching pad could bring out. "I wish to know you too."

The hand against his face trembled and Javert's lips widened. "May I, then?" he asked, and Valjean was nodding, expectant now to see the result of his art, almost impatient – when lips were pressed against his own, when stubble scratched against his cheek and chin and all his senses filled with the scent of Javert. Without his mind's knowledge or consent, Valjean's hand buried deep in the steel-grey hair and he found himself groaning against Javert, a wave of desire roaring to all-encompassing life within.

The sound Javert made then, the way his fingers crushed the coal, then grasped at Valjean's arms, heedless of the black marks he left... He pulled Valjean closer until their naked chests were pressing at each other, his kisses silent prayers of supplication. As the drawings managed to pull dignified beauty from the meanest subject, Valjean thought his carnal lust grew hallowed beneath Javert's eyes and his careful touches.

Valjean found his mouth again; they kissed. Their teeth bumped together and the wetness was unaccustomed and odd; they were too close, he was too old, they were... they... They kissed, clumsy and new at this skill. They kissed; and they drew each other beautiful with that kiss.

"I was honestly," Javert gasped when Valjean's fingers found the edge of his trousers, "drawing you, only planned to draw you."

He hummed in agreement. For all that there had been a thread from Javert's eyes, tugging at his own excitement from the very beginning, Valjean had never felt himself being leered upon. The gaze had been scientific and admiring in turns, but never naughty, never stealing what he did not yet give; beneath its honest appreciation, his desire had slowly grown and could now freely burst into flower.

Javert was warm in his hands, and the unprecedented sensation of having another's flesh pressed against him there, to know the hardness of another's muscles and the softness of skin upon skin... It broke through all the defences Valjean's many years of chastity had left him with, delivering him to this sweet delirium of the body. He dared hardly wrap a hand around Javert's arousal, fumbled his grip, yet was still rewarded with a sharp hiss and a needful thrust. They knew each other, and that knowing took him apart. It left him overwhelmed and blind, this simple act, it had him aching from the sensations – fingers fumbling along his chest, tangling in the hair upon his chest, a hoarse voice speaking his name over and over again – but his completion was found in something deeper than bodily delights.

For only because he knew that it was Javert's eyes seeing him, Javert's fingers waking him from shame to pleasure, could he accept it all – eyes that demanded and hands that aroused and a hungry, tasting mouth that knew him and accepted him with all his myriad of faults.

When Valjean spilled his pleasure between them, he sank back to lie wholly on the floor, too boneless and lax to even think of moving further. The blanket was the softest meadow beneath his back and his breathlessness a glimmering psalm to beauty. Javert's face was flushed above him; he drew back and touched hesitant fingers to the wet traces on Valjean's stomach, looked at this little proof of pleasure with a face almost wrecked by emotion. Lifting his hand, eyes closing in reverence, he brought a finger near his open mouth and drew in a breath – Valjean could not contain a moan at the sight, spent that he was – before he tasted the trace. Tongue moving against his finger, his ragged breath, and the shiver which took him as if he had just savoured a new delicacy; all these images swirled before Valjean and his arm, still so heavy with fulfilled pleasure, strained upwards to find Javert's thigh, to squeeze and help hold him fast. Then Javert's other hand found his own hardness, drawing upon it with perfunctory strokes, and he looked down upon Valjean, reaching down towards his chest again. His lips formed words, though he seemed to have lost his voice – may I? And he was smearing the fluid against Valjean's stomach, dipping his thumb into the hollow of his belly-button, before bringing his hand up again with such a look of hunger that Valjean knew that had he been but a few years younger, the fire in him would have kindled again.

"You should," he managed, "know me, please."

And then Javert reached for his hand, made him touch his own release and pulled Valjean's fingers to his lips. He tasted Valjean in entity and completion, and before delighted eyes he gave himself over to pleasure and spilled himself upon Valjean.

He swayed in his seat, looked almost undone by his actions, and so Valjean assisted him. He pulled Javert down onto himself, caught his elbow before it might thud painfully into the floor, and held him close at his side as they found a moderatly comfortable position next to each other. The carper felt too thin beneath him now, the clouds of desire having dispersed, but Valjean had slept in more uncomfortable places and never had he felt another sharing this warmth; he would not abandon this bed just yet.

They spoke not, and around them the white sheets with their silent observations were the only witnesses to their joy.


End file.
